It Was For the Best
by onethousandoceans
Summary: If home is where the heart is, what happens when your heart is dead? Are you then considered homeless? (angsty friend!johnlock)(rated for very sad themes)


"So John, how are you feeling today? How are you sleeping?" Dr. Thompson asked her pen poised above a notepad. Days had turned to weeks, and weeks to months and finally months to just short of a year. Still, the pain in John's heart was fresh, fresher now that he could hear him whisper in his thoughts now and then. How could John explain such things? That he wasn't okay still, even after confessing that being in their old apartment hurt so much he had had to move out. To admit that he couldn't even sleep because the shadow of a dead man haunted his mind, it would be his undoing. A psych ward was not in his plans for the future, not that he really had any.

"I think I'm starting to get better finally," John lied, "I actually slept through most of the night. I am a cured man, doc."

_**What an obvious lie. You've got circles around your eyes that would put raccoons to shame.**_

"John? You look distressed; tell me what's going on in that head of yours." Ella was already scribbling on her note pad, in her distinctive handwriting. What she had noted down in the last few minutes, John couldn't tell- she had learned to keep the writing out of his sight.

"I…" He didn't know what to say, or how to even begin to explain what was going on in his head. When one has begun to keep all thoughts internal, it becomes difficult to express even the simplest things. Then again, how can one say they hear the voice of their best mate echo internally at seemingly random times? Explicate how things he had grown to love had lost all appeal in the passing months, until even his job held no real worth. No, not even the saving of hundreds lives could make up for the one he had lost. "I just… I miss him. He was my best friend and now I don't... I don't... I don't know how to handle it, okay? Everyone looks at me as if I've lost my bloody marbles, but I haven't. Maybe they're just a bit scattered. I just don't know Ella." John didn't remember standing, but he realized he now stood mere feet away from the stunned woman. What he'd just said was by far the most he had said in recent months.

"You're certainly not insane John. It's normal to miss the people that are no longer with us. Please, do sit down; we've still got 15 minutes in this session. Perhaps you'd like to expand upon your thoughts?"

John sat, if only to ease the shaking in his limbs. His damn limp was back with a vengeance, but it was hardly a surprise considering. Gathering himself, he pondered what he had just yelled at the poor Dr. Thompson. He knew his sanity must be slipping if he was hearing dead people, yet he still didn't want her to know. A nagging feeling told him he had best keep that to himself, lest he be dragged off to the funny farm. He looked about the room, London skyline visible through the gap in the curtains. He was totally stalling for time. Ella looked expectantly at him, obviously awaiting some sort of response. "_Might as well say something, pick the lesser of two evils," _he thought sullenly.

" I know it's been a year, but, I still feel as if he's here- lurking around a corner smirking because he's got us all fooled," Ella scrawled another few sentences onto her pad, frowning ever so slightly, "No, I know he's de-gone. I just feel as if his presence is still around. And it doesn't help that Mrs. Hudson all but bursts into tears every time I visit her." John finished with a sigh. That had at least given her something to write about. Now he could just take his prescription and be on his merry way.

"I'm so glad we're finally making a breakthrough on this issue. Now, I want you to continue with this between now and our next appointment. I want you to pick up your blog John, or start a new one. Writing seems to help you sort yourself; I think it could be quite cathartic if you wrote what was going on in your head. I hope you can keep this new openness alive until out next session." She smiled. Well didn't she look pleased with his unexpected emotional outburst. He blinked owlishly at her, and moved to leave the room. As he left, she called for him to have a good day, and to remind him that the receptionist would be calling to schedule their next meeting. Another hour of torture-joy.

He hobbled out of the building into the bustling streets of London, becoming just another face in the crowd. Completely ordinary. Nothing ever happened to John anymore.

As John shambled along the lively streets, it occurred to him how utterly pointless his life had become. No longer in the surgery, no longer sidekick to a brilliant man, no longer fit for soldiering. How the great do fall, as some wise man once said.

Without quite realizing it, John had wandered into Hyde Park. Everywhere he looked, people were milling about, going about their business, their lives. Never stopping to really look around, nor to find comfort in the softly rustling leaves in the trees, or the happy whistle of the birds. Endlessly wandering; like he was. John had lost himself, and in trying to find himself, he lost a little more of himself. Friends drifted off, slowly. The connected knots of camaraderie eventually loosening and fraying into nothing but old memories of smiles and good times passed.

Yet, it hadn't happened all at once, not overnight either. One simple severance would have been easier to handle, rather than the hundred small blows to Johns mind as people slipped away. Sarah had been the first to go; she couldn't handle the blank stares during the first few months. Then Anderson, Donavan and Stamford had stopped checking in, no longer concerned with John's life. Lestrade was a different story though. He too was having difficulties in coping with the loss of the consulting detective. Currently, he had himself buried neck deep in cold cases. It seemed that the only way Lestrade was holding on was by keeping occupied. He probably would never admit it, but he missed the man. At least he still called John sometimes, to catch up, maybe have a few drinks at the pub.

The worst one now had to be Mrs. Hudson by far. John still saw her fairly often, at least twice a month, yet at every meeting she still couldn't accept his sorry state. She still tried to hold on to the memories of before; all the laughs and smiles and wild antics. She hadn't even allowed him to return the keys to their old flat. "It'll always be yours and his dearie," shed constantly say, "besides, no one is looking to rent it out". Right, who'd want the old apartment owned by a couple of maniacs?

A face John hadn't seen since his discharge happened past, bringing up memories of old thrills had on the battlefield, the scent of sweat and fear- absolutely exhilarating. George McMaster, he had briefly been in John's squad. As the men approached each other on the trail, John determined to wave, call him over, and maybe chat for a while. It would certainly alleviate the lonesome feeling in his chest. He raised his arm in a friendly hello, only to be completely ignored. "_Well, that's awkward. Find a reason for your arm to be up!_" Like any reasonable person, he quickly scratched the back of his ear, and hurried on.

John sank sluggishly onto the chipping wood of a park bench. For a while, he simply stewed in his grief and loneliness. He saw every loss in his life pile around him like the many leaves upon the ground. He really had lost everything he had considered worthwhile. All around him the world continued, but John, he was stuck. Near by a new mother passed with baby in carriage. A young couple strolled pass hand in hand, giggling and tittering like all young couples do. John couldn't help but resent them. They had something he was now denied. John needed to be needed.

That new mother, her baby needs her to feed him, clothe him, shelter him, bathe him, love him, and raise him. The young couple, they need each other's support, care, respect, understanding, and love. Sherlock used to give him that purpose. Sherlock needed John around to do the shopping. Sherlock needed John around to keep some semblance of order. Sherlock needed John around to keep things edible, and tangible and sometimes just plain normal. With Sherlock gone, John no longer had a purpose. He was no longer necessary. And to be frank, that bugged the piss out of him.

Now in a most awful mood, John resorted to people watching, the last little pleasure he had. When one had a lot of time and not to do, they quickly come up with ways to kill time to the next meal, or the end of the day for the sweet respite of sleep. Even the busker over in the gazebo looked like he had someone. He was playing up a storm, the notes drifting over and all but assaulting John's ears with the sound of love and affection. Buskerman probably didn't even need the change thrown in his guitar case; he probably just wanted the world to know about the girl that made his heart sing. Oddly enough, John couldn't help but feel he had seen that guy before.

_**John, he's following you. It seems my dearest brother still has an interest it you. **_

"Yea, sure mate," John scoffed. Glancing around, he noticed a simple gardener. Late forties, thinning hair, average build-nothing special. Looked haggard, maybe some money troubles.

_**By the way he keeps shifting his gaze; he is some sort of spy.**_

Yep, definitely losing his mind, because Hyde Park is totally the hang out spot for all the covert operators.

_**Tan line evident on his left hand, recently divorced. Financially unstable, worried about it- he's not sleeping. At least, that's what he wants you to see, dear John. Look, he's wearing a Rolex; he would have pawned it if he were worried. Now, look at the left hand breast pocket of his coat, that bulge is unmistakably a concealed weapon. I would estimate it at a .38 calibre pistol. Definitely a spy.**_

The voice of Sherlock echoed in his mind, giving him an overview of the poor gardener (or was he really a spy?).This was an entirely new level; normally it was only a whispered comment, a chortle during confusion- never a full blown speech. John looked away, startled, confused, and a bit more grief stricken. "I've really gone off my rocker now," he thought. Determining to leave, John made to get up, when out of the corner of his eye, he saw a familiar shadow cross the path. So familiar, it froze him to the spot. No, it just couldn't be.

The other man was now moving away from John, towards the pond some hundred yards away, give or take a few. He appeared to be moving as if the wind itself were carrying him, off towards the murky grey waters. Ducks swam about pleasantly in the shallows. Struck with a desire to stop the man, to see his face, check that it wasn't _him_ overtook John, and he began to stumble after the gent in question.

Thoughts raced wildly through Johns head, was it Sherlock, could it possibly be him somehow? The man stopped at the water's edge, and began to observe the ducks as they splashed about. He stood a solitary figure, silhouetted in the early afternoon sun. John could not believe his eyes, it was as if a ghost had stepped out into the waking tangible world. As he got closer, the man looked more and more like Sherlock, the tilt of the head as he watched the birds, the stance in which he took, the way he fiddled absently with the hem of one sleeve, lost in thought. Sherlock, he was there- John could _see_ him. He started to sprint, tossing his cane. He slowed as he came within a few feet, and thrust an arm out to turn Sherlock around, to yell at him for all the anguish, agony and sorrow that he had caused.

Except that it wasn't Sherlock's face that appeared. The features weren't quite right, nose too rounded, lips to full, also the beard was well… there. But the eyes were the same shocking, clear blue. Those eyes held John for a second, a minute? He tried to count the seconds to no avail. As much as he wanted it to be true, this was just another stranger. Sheepishly, he mumbled out an apology, along the lines of thinking the man was someone else that he hadn't seen in a long time. Dejected, and extremely embarrassed, John slunk away, head down. He retrieved his cane from where it had dropped, and left the park.

If home is where the heart is, where is home if the heart is dead inside, gone numb. Is one then considered homeless? John's home, if it could be called that, was sparsely furnished. In short, it was a real bachelor pad. Take-aways and pizza boxes were jammed into the trash can, a slight smell of body odour pervaded the air, and his bed, shoved in the corner of the room, was unkempt, sheets wrinkled and pillows astray. What time John spent in his flat was spent trying to sleep, or cram food into his face. He had no energy left to keep the place clean to his usual military standards. Lately, his rooms were too restricting; there was never enough air, enough space to even think, to breathe.

He paced the small distance between walls; almost certain he would wear a path into the floor. The encounter earlier had shaken him. He knew if he didn't move past this inane belief in Sherlock's survival, he was not going to be able hold on to the tatters of his sanity. Yet, he couldn't give up the feeling that one way or another, by some twist of fate, the man still lived. That was too much to hope for, John knew all too well. Deciding that he needed to see one last time, prove to himself that it was all in his head, he grabbed the keys to 221B off the little hook beside the door, and headed out into the night. John didn't need a home, he needed a Holmes.

The front door opened with a whoosh, like it always had. The stairs leading up to the apartment were slightly dusted. It looked like Mrs. Hudson couldn't bring herself to even go near the flat either. They creaked in the silence as John approached the door to the interior. He fumbled in his pocket for the next key he needed, almost dropping the blasted thing in the process. Hesitantly he turned the key in the door, opening into a familiar and yet alien space. John didn't know what he was expecting when he opened that door, but what he got was certainly lack luster. Possibly he might have been expecting to walk in like nothing had happened, like a year hadn't passed. That everything would be the way it should be; him and Sherlock back together, partners in crime against crime. Or, maybe he expected there to be a sign that the man was still living; items disturbed, rummaged through, foot prints in the fine coating of dust.

What he got when he opened the door was nothing, just the skittering of some poor mouse as it tried to hide from the sudden intruder. Everything was exactly as he had left it ten months ago. The sofa and his chair were still draped in white sheets; all the books were still packed haphazardly in boxes. Yorick still sat proudly on the mantle, but now sported a few spider webs in his eye sockets. Not a speck of dust, or piece of paper had moved. It had all frozen in place like John had. Every object had sat waiting, collecting age and dust, waiting to be useful to someone again.

He had to admit it to himself; he should have known that nothing was going to be in disarray. Yet, the shattering of his last shred of hope still pulled at his soul, the last of him coming undone. John sank to his knees, and let himself cry. Cry because he was alone, because he wasn't needed, because he was so utterly lost and alone and stuck and no one gave a damn about him. He sat like that, surrounded by the memories of his past, each wrapping him in a blanket of bitter sweetness, until he simply could not shed another tear. Then, he fell to his side, completely spent, curled into the fetal position, and slept the sleep of the dead.

He awoke covered in one of the white sheets, but, that wasn't what brought him back to the waking world. He heard footsteps retreating almost silently down the stairs. Mrs. Hudson had probably heard him the night before, and come to check up on him, make sure he hadn't offed himself or something equally stupid. Having not seen her in a few days (or was it a week?), John groggily rose, swiped a hand over his face and through his hair. That being the best he could manage at the moment, he followed the sound of feet. He reached the top of the stairs just as the exterior door shut. "_Odd,_" he thought, "_I would have thought Mrs. Hudson would just go back into her own flat._" Curiosity got the better of John, and in his dishevelled state he followed Mrs. Hudson out.

"_Weird, I don't think it's even 7 am yet. Where in the world could this woman be going_?" He started off down the street, hoping he was going the right way. John looked around, not seeing the bustling shape of the woman anywhere. Deciding she couldn't have gotten too far off, he turned to his left, and began walking at a brisk pace. He continued in that way for several paces, until he finally saw someone. An oddly familiar someone. John blanched, "_No, no. Don't be an idiot John, it isn't Sherlock. He's dead. Dead and buried for a long time now. You saw for yourself, you proved it you sorry sod. He's gone and you're just losing it._" This was pure insanity. That man, whoever he was, was not Sherlock. He'd already made that mistake, and he wasn't prepared to make that same mistake again. John couldn't help but notice the way the man walked though, a perfectly graceful stride. The coat tails flapping, the collar popped, and the thick curls of the man weren't helping John's resolve either. Hadn't he mistaken the same thing earlier though?

_**When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth, John.**_

"_Bugger it all, if I'm going to go down mad, I might as well go down completely and utterly insane_" he thought. Steeling himself for whatever might come from this, John ran. The man in front of him began to run to, almost at the same time. He ducked through an alley way, across a street and disappeared. But only momentarily, John whirled around the alley, into the street, across a lawn, and saw a few yards ahead of him the rapidly disappearing form of the man. John pushed himself to run faster and catch up to the others long legs. He could feel the muscles starting to ache already; he really had gone out of shape in recent days. Ignoring that pain as best as he could, focusing instead on flapping coat tails and pounding foot falls, John felt himself more than saw himself closing in.

The man pushed a trash can into Johns path, he jumped it. He scaled a fence faster than a spider monkey and John scrambled up after him. John was not going to give up on this until he saw the man's face and could clearly say it was not who he was beginning to hope it was. Who else had a perfect mental map of London readily available? Who else would run from John so vehemently, if not a dead man? Now almost wheezing with every breath he drew in, John gave it his all, and bounded up within 5 feet of the man. Then 4 and a half feet, then 4 feet, until his was close enough to spring for the man's legs and tackle him to the ground.

Half expecting a repeat of earlier, John looked down at the man he had just chased and pinned to the ground. If he was wrong, well, he was getting his ass sued. Sucking in a breath, John opened his eyes, which he didn't realized were closed, and looked into shockingly blue eyes. Shockingly blue eyes that were surprised and quite annoyed. Eyes that were set into a distinctively angular face, which had an expression of recognition and remorse. What made John finally crack was looking slightly past the face to the trademark blue scarf that was supposed to have been buried with his best friend a year ago. John teared up for the second time that day, as it hit him that he wasn't completely crazy. His gut feeling had been right, Sherlock was alive. But, why wasn't he happy?

Betrayal stabbed him in the heart a few seconds later. Why had Sherlock put him through all this, lied to him, pretended to be dead and out of reach for so long? John sprang up and stumbled back. Sherlock opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it. John stood gaping, emotions raging through him. Again Sherlock opened his mouth and muttered five little words-

_**It was for the best.**_

__John became unhinged; he flew at him, and socked him squarely on the side of his stupid face (being careful to avoid his mouth and nose, mind). Then, he kneeled down, and hugged the man. In that moment, life coursed back into Johns veins, and he knew that in time Sherlock would explain why he had had to do what he did. In that moment, John didn't care; he had his life back, his purpose. John was needed again.


End file.
